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THE LUCK 
O’ LADY JOAN 











r ^HE busy Friar married them then and there 



* 


THE 

LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

A FAIRY TALE FOR WOMEN 


BY 

JOSEPHINE DASKAM gACON 


ILLUSTRATED BY 
CLARA ELSENE WILLIAMS 



CHICAGO 

F. G. BROWNE & GO. 
1913 



* > > 



COPYRIGHT, 1913 
BY F. G. BROWNE & CO. 

Copyright in England 
All rights reserved 

PUBLISHED, SEPTEMBER, I913 


THE* PLIMPTON* PRESS 
NORWOOD* MASS* U*S* A 



©CI.A354458 


fU/ 


THE LUCK ’0 LADY JOAN 


THE 

LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 



OU may be certain 
that this tale is per- 
fectly true, my dears, 
for I had it from 
the grandmother of 
my grandmother’s 
grandmother straight down to 
me. And it came as straight to 
the longest dead of all these good 
women (and from as far behind 
her, too) you may rest assured, or 
I’d scorn to tell it. I have no 
patience myself with these mush- 
room tales, made hot over night 
by boys hardly used to their 
breeches yet, you might say; they 
may do for the children, to bring 


17 ] 


THE LUCK O* LADY JOAN 

on the eye-shutting hour, but for 
us with the taste o’ life still hot 
(or, it may be cooling) in our 
mouths and a handful of wrinkles 
spreading out templewards — no, 
no! Well ripened, as all men will 
have their wine, and the wise their 
women, for our tales, if you please. 
And now to this one. 

Of all the misers that ever laid 
one farthing on another and went 
hungry for a third to warm the 
two with, old Dudleigh Hartover 
of Hartover Chine was surely the 
stingiest and the meanest. And 
half-brother to a lord, too, but 
deadly ashamed of it, for fear 
something should be expected of 
him on account of his station. He 
lived in a low, miserable cottage 
that was more like a hut, to say 
the truth, at the very end of the 
family estates; and as the family 


[8] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

dwelt overseas in France, and had 
for a generation, preferring that 
country and being really Norman 
at heart, as many were, even in 
those times, it was nigh forgotten 
who he was — well forgotten by 
the family, who despised him too 
much to feel ashamed for him, you 
see, and made use of him only 
through a factor to collect their 
great rents. 

He had by him his only grand- 
son, an orphan, and a fine lad, 
straight as a wand and open handed, 
by contrary, as the old fellow was 
close. Not that he would have 
kept him, be sure, except that 
with his rheumatism and poor 
sight, he must have had some one 
to look to the pig, and fetch the 
water and wood, and make ways 
in the snow, and tend the cabbages 
and potatoes in the unthrifty gar- 


19 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

den patch; and who else would do 
it for a straw bed and a bowl of 
porridge and a handful of nuts, 
I ask you? Young Dudleigh knew 
no better fare and thought in his 
honest, foolish young heart he was 
much in debt to his grandfather 
for his support. And are they 
the only couple of that sort that 
ever you heard of? 

Now these were the days of the 
old religion, and though I that 
tell you this am on t’ other side of 
the fence now, too many of my 
grandmothers cleaned their hearts 
with holy water for me to have 
aught but kindness for what my 
grandchildren tell me I must hate 
like the Old Gentleman himself! 
But they have not got to the age 
when all the roads to heaven join 
into the one lane that dips over 
churchyard hill, and after that. 


UO] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

I’m thinking, there’ll be plenty of 
all kinds to give a hand to, and 
it’s not a whiff o’ the incense 
that’ll keep us apart! It’s my own 
grandmother was an Irishwoman, 
besides, and for the life of me I 
cannot keep my face straight 
sometimes when I see the Reverend 
James and his eleven daughters 
go up the street — thinking on the 
sly wit of the wicked old dear in 
such cases. Not that she grudged 
them heaven, deary me, no! If 
a parson with eleven unmarried 
girls had no heavenly deserts, she 
knew not who had, she was used 
to say! 

Well, then, those being the old 
days, and things as they were, 
you will not, I am sure, be surprised 
at what I am going to tell you. 
Off on the downs there dwelt a 
tidy old body, so old and forsaken 


Hi] 


THE LUCK O* LADY JOAN 

that her name had long been for- 
gotten — if indeed, she held the 
right to any name. In her middle 
age she had kept the fowls for a 
great inn that had used to flourish 
near by, so she came to be called 
the hen-wife, and the name stuck 
to her, as they say, and by it she 
was known. She was crippled and 
went with a crutch, and a good 
half of her time she must be upon 
her back, though for the rest she 
was spry enough, and would have 
fared ill but for the neighbors 
and gossips of those parts, who 
would send her a bit here and a 
bit there, and leave faggots bound 
for her to pick up on her way and 
a handful of meal for her black hen. 
And little they lost by it, I can 
tell you, for they got her prayers 
in return, and that was something. 

For this poor, bent old creature. 


[12] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

ready for the palsy, nearly deaf, 
often empty, and oftener cold, was 
strangely dear to those you and 
I will never see this side of heaven 
— namely, what my grandmother 
called (though I must not) the 
Blessed Saints. It has always been 
so, my grandmother would say, 
and just why They pick and choose 
as They do we shall never know; 
but it seemed as though what 
this old hen-wife lost in worldly 
comfort and honor, that very same 
was made up to her in the pride 
and glory of heaven; for to her in 
visions came often and often the 
blessed St. Barnabas and would 
relate to her more of the doings 
of Paradise than you or I could 
learn going backwards to Rome 
with peas in both shoes — as my 
grandmother said. Though mind 
you, I do not hold with that, and 


[13] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

am, moreover, weak-stomached at 
sea, and cannot feel that the Lord 
would drive me there for his glory 
or my salvation. 

Now the hen-wife loved a dish 
of gossip as well as the next, and 
since she had none of this earth 
to amuse her, the good St. Barnabas 
would always have some tasty bit 
of chat for her that was none the 
less a heavenly visitation because 
it was not all prayers, you under- 
stand. And one night when she 
had suffered more than common 
with her back and was in great 
need of a little cheering, the kind 
saint had a fine tale for her, when 
she was gone off to what you would 
call her sleep and my grandmother 
called her vision. 

“Do you know,” says he, “any 
especially virtuous maid about 
these parts by name of Joan?” 


[14] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

“That do I, your honor,” says 
the hen-wife, “for sure it must be 
Joan the tinker’s daughter, and 
a fairer, better hearted maid never 
put her bare foot to the ground, 
for it’s never a shoe the poor child 
owns since she was born. As 
gentle as a pigeon, and good — oh, 
the Blessed Virgin should know 
how good the girl is, for she’s as 
pure as snow.” 

“The Blessed Virgin knows it 
well,” says St. Barnabas, “and I 
promise you it is on her mind, hen- 
wife. It seems that this girl’s 
father has just died and she is to 
be turned out into the world, and 
the winter coming on, and she with 
nowhere to go and not a friend 
that can help her. Now all this 
troubled Our Lady, and that was 
clear as glass. Well, they made 
music for her, and fruits of all- 


115] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

colors (to see them even in a pic- 
ture, ’twould blind you, hen-wife, 
but you can think o’ church win- 
dows and the sun going down) but 
no, ’twas of no use at all. So St. 
John was got to ask her and find 
out why the Queen of Heaven 
should be troubled. 

“‘Oh, St. John!’ says she, ‘they 
tell me that harm is like to come 
to that poor tinker’s daughter that 
has had me in her heart since 
Father Victor first taught her to 
say a Hail Mary! All her days 
she has served and praised me and 
now she is cast out alone, and lovely 
as one of my own angels! What 
honor is there in honoring Mary if 
those that do it come to this?’ 

“‘Madam and Queen,’ says St. 
John, ‘this shall not be so. I my- 
self will see that this maid shall be 
rich and powerful, and a noble 


[ 16 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

lady in the world, and that within 
the year. Will this be pleasing 
to the Queen of Heaven?’ 

“So then Our Lady thanked 
him most courteously, and smiled 
again, and you can envy that lucky 
girl with all your heart, hen-wife, 
for the thing is as good as done 
when St. John has it on his mind.” 

Well, that was a piece of news, 
perhaps! The old hen-wife had 
never seen Joan in the face, but 
she had heard of her, as you see, 
and glad she was that such piety 
was to have its reward; for it was 
said that the girl had never missed 
Mass in the bitterest weather, and 
her barefoot! 

Now in a while the hen-wife was 
over her fit of sickness for that 
season, and she got herself up from 
bed and started out with her crutch 
looking for faggots. She had more 


[ 17 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

strength in her old legs than ordi- 
nary that day, and she walked 
across the moor and over by Hart- 
over Chine and stopped by the 
miser’s cottage to get her breath 
and may be (for she did not know 
him, you see) a taste of something 
to fill her. Old Dud — for that 
was what they called him, having 
mostly forgotten his birth — stood 
in the doorway and glowered at 
her as she stopped. 

“ Good-day to ye, neighbor,” says 
she, “God be good to ye!” 

“As to that,” answers Old Dud 
gruffly, “I know naught of it. If 
God helps any, it’s them that helps 
themselves, to my thought.” 

“Or their neighbors,” says the 
hen- wife, “ as I know you will when 
I tell you that I’m empty since 
night.” 

“In that case,” says he, stepping 


118 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

back into the hut, “I’m glad it’s 
not me that has the filling of ye, 
with meal what it is, and the pig 
not killed yet!” 

With that he shut the door in 
her face, and she was starting on, 
near whimpering with the dis- 
appointment, when out jumped 
Young Dud, who had heard all 
this, and thrust at her his tin of 
cold porridge. 

“Here, granny,” says he, “take 
part of my dinner, and don’t mind 
him, will ye, now?” 

So they sat behind the hut, and 
the hen-wife got to talking, as 
women will, and “Oh,” says she, 
“I wish you the luck of Joan the 
tinker’s daughter, boy dear, and 
there’s no one living could have 
better, for the Virgin herself’s be- 
hind it.” 

Then he must know what it was. 


[ 19 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

and she told him all St. Barnabas 
had told her, and it went in one ear 
and out the other, as they say, with 
the careless boy. But she told it 
to two, for Old Dud was at the back 
window and heard every word, and 
when the hen-wife was leaving he 
was far on his way before her. He 
bustled along over the ground, 
asking his way from all, and was 
often as not getting wrong answers, 
he was so disliked, till at last he 
found a lovely young girl weeping 
under a tree and when he asked 
her if she knew aught of Joan the 
tinker’s daughter she wept the 
harder, and said it was her name, 
but that the tinker was no more. 

“Never you mind, my dear,’’ 
says Old Dud, heaving a sigh of 
relief that he was the first to get 
her, “for from this day on. I’m 
your father, and will provide for 


[20] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

you as if you were one of my 
own!” 

The poor child was too simple 
to see that this fusty old fellow in 
soiled and ragged clothes was not 
likely to put her very far forward 
in the world, but curtsied sweetly 
to him and kissed his grimy hand 
out of gratitude and felt that she 
had found a friend indeed. 

“There’s but one thing,” said 
Old Dud, “that I shall ask of you, 
and that’s to go with me before 
the notary and make over to me all 
your fortune present and future, 
and then I’ll agree to keep you as 
one of my own, as I said.” 

Then poor Joan mustneeds laugh, 
for she had but the chemise and 
petticoat she stood in, her father’s 
tinkering kettle, and a lame duck 
she had tended from a gosling, for 
all her fortune. But Old Dud 


[21] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

cared little for her laughing. He 
went with her to the notary and 
paid out a silver coin for papers 
binding them both, and the neigh- 
bors nearly split themselves with 
mirth and mocked them all the 
way home. 

Now when Joan got to the tum- 
ble-down hut and saw the dirty 
floor and the black hearth and the 
smoky walls, I suppose you are 
thinking that her heart fell and 
that she wished herself back on the 
clean moor-lands, but wait a bit! 

“Here is good work for a woman, 
dear father,” says she, “it is easy 
to see you need some one about, as 
much as I need a home,” and she 
fell to work with water from the 
spring, so that when Young Dud 
came back from his snaring, with 
a fine young rabbit for supper, he 
found the floor fresh, the hearth 


122] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

shining with clean coppers, the 
straw heaped new in the beds, and 
green boughs against the stained 
walls. 

“Here is a sister for you, boy,” 
said the old miser, in his surly 
way, “and she must e’en take the 
loft, I suppose, and you come down 
with me. Do you clean the rabbit 
and see if she can cook it for us, 
and no words.” 

Joan made them roasted cakes 
of meal with their supper, and they 
ate from a clean pan, which pleased 
Young Dud, though he knew not 
what it was that pleased him. 
After supper she washed the pots 
and made all tidy and they went 
to their beds. But Young Dud 
could not sleep so sound as was his 
wont, for it seemed to him that he 
heard footsteps and water poured, 
and at last he opened his eyes and 


[23] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

saw some one moving in the bright 
moon-light, and looking carefully, 
he knew that it was Joan, clad only 
in the tattered quilt that lay on her 
straw. It was hung like a mantle 
over her and as she moved softly 
about and wrung the water from 
the clothes she was washing, her 
shoulders and small breasts, as 
white as curds, gleamed, and the 
slender calves of her strong young 
legs. You see, the poor child had 
but the two garments, and she must 
get them clean, for she was as neat 
as a white weasel. Young Dud 
would have liked to watch her 
very closely, but for some rea- 
son he felt that he should not, 
so he smothered his eyes in the 
straw and tried to sleep. But he 
could not, and had to listen to her 
small bare feet on the stone floor 
and her sighs as she lifted the 


[24] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

heavy kettle she had brought from 
her father. 

Soon there was a stillness and 
then he knew that her work was 
over and he slept. 

In the morning before he was 
awake she was dressed, and when 
his grandfather asked gruffly for 
the porridge she shook her head 
and smiled. 

“But not before Mass!” says 
she, and then, “Do you not re- 
member ’tis Christmas Day?” 

The old fellow growled in his 
dirty beard that he held by none 
of that, but when she said sweetly, 
“But you, brother, will surely go 
with me?” Young Dud blushed 
and halted and went at last, much 
to the joy of good Father Victor, 
who had nigh given him up for 
an idle, bird’s nesting fellow, bound 
for a worse end. 


[25] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

It was a late winter that year, 
and long remembered for its merci- 
ful warmth. Scarcely had the snow 
come ere it was gone, and no day 
but you could find some green 
thing in the wood. All these plants 
and roots Joan knew, for her grand- 
mother was a Normandy woman, 
and they can make soup from a 
stone, as they say. Leaves and 
roots would she boil and make 
strong tea to help Old Dud’s rheums 
and pains, and savory messes to 
give a smack to their porridge. 
She planted vines and green things 
in old broken crocks, too, and the 
heat of the cottage brought them 
into bloom. And she did more. 
For many years. Old Dud had 
sold his pig, for the boy was wilful 
and would not help in the killing, 
so they got but little out of it. 
But at Joan’s request he helped 


[ 26 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

his grandfather in the business, 
and when the animal was ready 
for her she cut and carved with 
her strong brown hands, and sold 
a half for salt, and of the rest she 
packed away in a pit in the ground 
enough to feed them well for the 
winter. And she made a feast 
out of the head, and laid away 
the feet in strong brine, and stuffed 
the entrails with a noble mixture 
of herbs she had picked, and bits 
of sweet bark, and melted down 
enough rich fat for all their dry 
meal cakes. And when Old Dud, 
rubbing his hands at the saving 
thriftiness of her, and scolding if 
a drop of the fat boiled over the 
tinker’s kettle (he would never 
buy one for himself) agreed at 
last that no more could be squeezed 
from the pig, she gave a sly smile, 
and bade her brother pick up the 


[271 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

bloody skin from the ground and 
carry it for her to the charcoal 
burners’ pit in the wood. And 
then she bargained with them for 
white lime, which they had always 
by them, and they gave her a 
sackful for the skin, which they 
knew how to cure with charcoal. 
So she made a tight broom of 
withes, and mixed the lime with 
water, and Young Dud washed the 
cottage with it, inside and out, 
under her orders, till it was like 
new sea sand, and sweet as could 
be. And the sack she washed and 
steeped in a certain bark till it 
turned red, and made herself a 
hood to wear to Mass. 

Now Young Dud had come to 
look forward most lovingly to the 
night before the Sunday, for then 
Joan washed out her poor clothes, 
clad in the quilt, and he would 


[ 28 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

steal one look only at her white- 
ness and then, his eyes to the 
straw. But at last, for he was a 
good lad, though a bit thoughtless 
— as many a good lad has been 
since — he took shame for his 
grandfather’s meanness, and spoke 
to him. 

“Grandfather,” says he, “they 
say you have a good bit of gold 
laid by from all this rent you will 
be always squeezing from the neigh- 
bors for the factor, and for myself, 
I care naught for it. But this 
poor girl has but one smock, and 
that she must be washing when 
we sleep; and she has made us as 
fine a cottage by now as any neigh- 
bor’s, and rich, tasty hams, and 
broths for your aches, and as good 
as got me into heaven with all 
these Masses; and I think you 
should be at the cost of a gown for 


[29] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

her, I do indeed, and a pair of stout 
leather shoes, for we are in her 
debt.” 

Well, at first the old man would 
hear nothing of it, and stormed and 
raged, but at last he agreed that 
if the lass knew how to spin, he 
would get her all the wool she 
could use, from a shepherd that 
was deep in his books, and a great 
wheel from the joiner’s wife, who 
was too old to use hers, and owed 
him also. And if she could make 
herself clothes from that, well and 
good. Young Dud was none too 
well pleased with this arrangement, 
but Joan was delighted, and spun 
all day, standing at the great wheel, 
so that it was not many Sundays 
but she had a fine warm petticoat 
and frock; and when in her grati- 
tude she told her new father that 
she had started a warm blanket 


[30] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

for him, he was moved to shame, 
and going to the great chest under 
his bed, with many groans and back 
steps and regrets, he reached down 
and handed her a silver coin and 
bade her get herself leather shoes 
from the cobbler. 

“How good your father is to 
me,” says she to Young Dud, on 
the way to Mass, “and why he 
should be so, I cannot see. There 
is nothing I lack, now, and all 
through him.” 

Young Dud did not tell her that 
she was the first to call his grand- 
father good, nor did he add that 
the old miser’s reasons for adopting 
her were hard indeed to guess, to 
one who knew him. 

Soon each bed had a warm blan- 
ket, and no feet went cold in that 
house, for when Joan was not 
spinning she was knitting, and 


[31] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

always with a homelike song on 
her red lips. So that the old miser 
had for nothing at all what many a 
man has paid high for and never 
got — the woman who will sing 
and spin together. For there are 
many who are glad to do the one, 
as my grandmother said, and many 
who are forced to do the other, 
but few who joy in both. And he 
who bargains for the one and lets 
the other go, is a fool, and he who 
makes sure of the other, resigning 
the one, will be seeking what he 
misses elsewhere, e’er long, she 
said, for though home without the 
one is gray, without the other ’tis 
very hell. And seeing this, many 
go bachelor, she told me. 

Now by spring more had hap- 
pened in the cottage. For once 
again Young Dud went to his 
grandfather and spoke. 


[32] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

“Sir,” said he, “I do not know 
if you notice it, but now that we 
are so trim and clean at home, and 
Joan in her new hood and petticoat, 
and the very pig-sty whitened, 
I think we must blush for our 
rags. Mine she hath patched till 
they can no more, and yours would 
never bear the water to them. 
Could you not give me new wear- 
ing gear by Easter? For the neigh- 
bors speak to me now, at Mass, 
and I am ashamed.” 

Well, then the old fellow raved 
and scolded, I promise you! Not 
a penny would he give, not he. 
So they kept warm, what more 
could they ask? Was he made 
of money? And such like, till he 
had tired himself. But at last, 
since the boy stood firm, and said 
he would sell his rabbits and not 
bring them home for supper, Old 


[33] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 


Dud stamped away to his great 
chest and with grunts and groans 
drew out two good sets of clothes, 
many years old, but firm and fine, 
and when they had each put them 
on, you would never have known 
them, so well-to-do and comfort- 
able they looked. And Joan seized 
the old rags, ere his grandfather 
had time for repentance, and 
washed them and made a warm 
set of cushions for his seat in the 
chimney from them. 

And then an odd thing happened, 
for with the decent gear the old 
miser took on himself some decent 
pride again, and when he was off 
on his next collection and a saucy 
girl called to her mate to see Old 
Dud in his grand clothes, he turned 
and shook his cane at her and 
snarled out, 

“Here is Dudleigh o’ Hartover, 


[34] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

wench, and you’ll do well to mind 
it from this on!” 

And partly in jest and partly 
because he held title to the name, 
after all, and was known to have 
saved, the neighbors began to give 
him his name again, whch pleased 
his grandson mightily, for they 
called him Young Hartover, now, 
and the girls lingered to talk with 
him, nor did their mothers forbid 
it, now he was grown steady. 

So before they knew it, the 
spring was on them, and Joan 
sold the joiner’s wife a pair of wool 
stockings for a setting of eggs, 
and put them under her duck, and 
soon had a fine hatching. And 
some of them she exchanged for 
hens, and the eggs she sold for 
seeds, and she set her brother to 
digging up the rough and weedy 
garden-patch, and by the end of 


[35] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

March there was a neat, smooth 
bed all ready to keep them that 
summer. So that now there was 
no cottage all around to equal it 
for thrift and bloom, and she was 
notable among the neighbors for 
her soups and bark-drinks and 
firm-knit hose. But never a penny 
did she take in money, but always 
in kind, so that naught went into 
the great chest, but yet the old 
man took nothing out. 

And toward the end of her life 
my grandmother would always be 
saying that for this sort of earn- 
ing Eve was planned — namely, 
not for picking, which was her 
(and our) damnation, but for plant- 
ing and tending, in the which had 
she persisted, our salvation had 
been sure without so much work 
for the Blessed Saints. But many 
hold differently today, they tell me. 


[36] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

Now as I say, ’t was the end of 
March, and the old man went 
forth on his collecting, which was 
at this season a matter of some 
days. So the two young ones were 
left together. And in the evening, 
the moon being full, they walked 
across the fields, hand in hand, as 
was their wont, toward the brook, 
to see if there were any water-eels 
in the traps, for Joan had promised 
to cook him a fine, rich mess in 
return for all his garden' labor. 
And at first they talked, but soon 
they grew still, and at last when 
they were come to the brook they 
clean forgot their errand thither, but 
only stared at the silver ripples on 
it and sighing, turned home again. 

But that night Dudleigh could 
not sleep at all, but lay and tossed 
under his blanket, and heard Joan 
rise many times in the night to 


[37] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 


pray, and even heard her words 
as she kneeled in the moon-light, 
and it seemed she must be thanking 
the Virgin continually for her happi- 
ness and comfort in this her home, 
and begging Our Lady to keep her 
always as Herself, pure and hum- 
ble, nor to let her grow proud or 
hard, with content and joy. And 
just before the dawn she dressed 
herself and slipped out softly, but 
not too softly for him to hear her, 
for in a twinkling he was after 
her, and caught her wading the 
brook, hunting green cresses, just 
as the sun rose. 

“What, are you here, brother?” 
she cried, and dropped her petti- 
coat over her rosy knees, all cold 
from the icy water. 

“Yes, I am here,” said he, “for 
I could not sleep in the night, but 
Joan, why do you call me brother?” 


[38] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

“Because your grandfather bade 
me,” says she, “and no sister could 
love you more than I do, Dudleigh, 
indeed.” 

“And that is true, too,” says 
the silly boy, holding her hands, 
full of the green fresh cresses, and 
staring at her as if he had never 
seen her before, “and no more 
could any brother love you more 
than I.” 

“Then shall we always be to- 
gether, dear brother?” says she, 
“for that would please me.” 

“And me,” says he, “I could 
never leave you for a day, it seems 
to me. Come out of the brook, 
Joan.” 

And as she came out he put his 
arm tight about her so that his 
hand fell over her heart, and they 
walked over the grass more like 
one body than two, so closely were 


[39] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

they linked, and all in a moment 
they kissed each other, mouth to 
mouth, and knew no more where 
they were walking or how, but 
the cresses fell scattered about her 
rosy feet. 

Then as they clung in that kiss, 
with the great sun all red and misty 
about them, and the morning dew 
heavy on their hair, the tinkling 
sheep came curiously upon them 
and behind these came the sleepy 
shepherd, and with him a traveling 
friar, of whom there were many 
in those days. And he, stepping 
smartly up to them, plucked Dud- 
leigh by the shoulder as one would 
pull a honey bee out from a wall- 
flower, and asked him what he 
did. 

“I was but kissing my sister, 
sir,” says the boy. 

“Ha!” says the friar, “many a 


[40] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

brotherly kiss have I seen, but 
none so long as that, for you are 
at it since I topped the hill, here. 
Now, my children, this is all wrong, 
unless ye mean it rightly. And 
if ye do so, then Mother Church 
hath no objection to all such kiss- 
ings, but rather the contrary.” 

“Then what would you have 
me do, father?” says Dudleigh 
in a daze. 

“Why, marry the maid, to be 
sure,” says the friar briskly, “and 
soon, if I am to judge by this kiss 
of yours. And talk not to me of 
brothers and sisters, son, for I 
was not born yesterday!” 

Well, the upshot of all this was, 
as you may guess, that this busy 
friar married them then and there, 
thinking them wandering gypsies 
(with them too senseless from love 
to undeceive him) and the shep- 


[41] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

herd was the witness, with his son, 
who knew them well. 

“And now my children,” says 
he, “you may kiss as long as you 
like, and Our Lady will bless you 
at it, you may take my word. And 
this time next year, if I come by 
again, let me bless three Christians 
instead of two!” 

So thus was Joan wed, and if 
the cottage had been home before, 
it was heaven now. 

But when Old Dudleigh came 
back, he was near crazy with anger 
at all this, for he had never dreamt 
of it, I promise you. Never had 
he for one moment forgotten his 
reasons for adopting the maid (that 
was now no more a maid, be sure) 
namely, the hopes he built on the 
hen-wife’s vision; for though he 
believed in no holy things, to obey 
them, and had not been to confes- 


[42] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

sion in forty years, yet strange to 
say, he would have staked his all 
on this chance to get poor Joan’s 
great luck, and was counting the 
days till the year should expire 
and St. John fulfil his bargain. 
And he was not the only one of 
that kidney, neither, for his sort 
are the first to believe tales that 
many a good Christian might be 
excused for doubting. 

But what was he to do? The 
thing was done, and all his snarl- 
ing could not put back the clock 
nor restore Joan’s blushes, so he 
grumbled in his beard at his grand- 
son for a fool and bade him make 
his peace with heaven, for the old 
fellow firmly believed that the 
youth would meet with an acci- 
dent and die before the year was 
out, to give St. John room for his 
promises, you see. 


[43] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

But Young Dudleigh paid no 
heed to his mutterings, but by- 
little and little took the charge 
of the collections on himself, and 
urged by Joan, learned to read and 
write, that he might be sure of 
the rights of things when Old Dud- 
leigh should be no more. But 
she would not learn herself, for 
she had no time, she said, nor was 
it needful; in which way of think- 
ing my grandmother declared her- 
self to be, for she said, until Eve 
had her first learning of the Ser- 
pent, she was happy and content, 
but with her knowledge lost she 
Paradise. 

So Joan worked in her garden 
and tended her fowls and became 
much loved in all the neighbor- 
hood, and indeed, respected, for 
her housewifery and skill in sick- 
ness; and when it was plain to see 


[44] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

that before another spring she 
would be dandling in her arms 
what now she carried near her 
heart, then indeed she had the 
good wishes of all, and little gifts 
and messages from far and near, 
and even the old miser was for- 
given for her sake. 

But as the summer drew to a 
close, this old miser grew uneasy 
and sourer than before. He knew 
naught of Joan’s hopes, for his 
senses were failing, and he did not 
see what was very plain by autumn, 
for he grumbled at her growing 
hunger and found many occasions 
to complain of her waste and idle- 
ness, if ever her knitting slackened 
and she paused to dream on the 
future or spared herself in garden 
labors. Soon he began to drop 
strange hints and mutterings of 
the time being nearly up and would 


[45] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

ask her of a sudden if she had met 
any great lord a-hunting in the 
wood, or if she did not plan to 
show herself in the market-town, 
“for,” says he, “I have put up 
with you a long time now, and 
been at great costs with all this 
cottage-whitening and flower-gar- 
dening and extra food and new 
clothes for us all, and I tell ye, girl, 
I look for my return!” 

Then Joan would shrink from 
him and cross herself, for the poor 
child thought his wits were going, 
and she must be brave for two, 
now. 

That year they paid for the last 
one with bitter cold from Michael- 
mas on, and the snow came early, 
and the black frost bit into the 
ground. Now Old Dudleigh must 
keep the house, and he watched 
his grandson’s wife through nar- 


[46] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

row, hateful eye-lids, and he worried 
at her as a terrier worries a mouse, 
till she was nigh crazy with him. 
But she did not let her husband 
know all this, and trusted to the 
child’s coming to soften his flinty 
heart. So it went on till Christ- 
mas Eve, and she was very heavy 
now, and looked for her hour at 
any moment with an anxious heart, 
though well she knew there was 
more than one neighbor all ready 
to come to her through the blind- 
ing snow. And as she stood by 
the fire, the light flickered over 
her, and Old Dudleigh winked and 
stared and scowled. 

“What’s come to ye, mistress?” 
he snarled. “Ye grow wonderful 
plump on my poor food, it seems. 
You’ll catch no lord with that 
shape, I promise you! You that 
are hand-in-glove with heaven, will 

[ 47 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

ye tell Them up there that I’m 
at the end o’ my patience? How’s 
our bargain, eh? Where’s your 
fortune?” 

“What is it that you mean, 
father?” she cried. “Do not be 
so harsh with me, and my son to 
be born tonight, may be! You 
know well that I want no lord 
but my own good man that is off 
to get me a cradle this very even- 
ing! Will you not be kind to me, 
father, as you were at first? ’T is 
Christmas Eve, when Our Lady 
was the same as I am now, though 
she must be in a stable, and I am 
at home and warm.” 

Then an awful look came on 
Dudleigh Hartover’s face and a 
black list of curses on his wicked 
old mouth. 

“Aha!” says he, “so that is 
how I’m tricked! Another mouth 


[48] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

at my food! Another cold body 
to warm in my bed ! And the 
lying saints at the bottom of it! 
No fortune at all! No lord at 
all! Nor ever will be, I see now. 
Well, well, the year’s up, so out ye 
go, hussy, and follow Our Lady to 
a stable if ye can. You’re none 
o’ mine nor your brat, neither. 
Out with you ! Out ! ” 

And he pushed her weeping and 
praying, out of the door, and barred 
it against her. And though he 
heard her whimpering around the 
cottage and crying for her husband, 
and that she was already in her 
pains, he set his wicked old jaw 
the harder, and cursed all the 
saints and especially St. John. 

Now as he sat in a doze by the 
chimney, he heard a tapping on 
the pane, and turning his head he 
saw the old hen-wife looking in, 


[49] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

and he rushed to the door and 
seized her by her skinny shoulders 
and shook her till her gums rattled 
and threw her backwards in the 
snow. 

“You lying wife,” he screamed 
at her, “what do ye here? What 
want ye?” 

“A place to die in, Hartover,” 
says the hen-wife, chattering with 
the cold. “Our Lady’s called me 
and I’ll soon be with her in glory. 
You’ll not let me die in the snow?” 

“That I will then,” says he 
grimly, “ and make no doubt She’s 
lied to you as she lied about the 
girl Joan, and her luck.” 

“Nay, Hartover,” said the hen- 
wife gravely, “Our Lady cannot 
lie. Only last night St. Barnabas, 
coming to tell me of my release 
from the body, spoke to me of 
Joan, though why you mind it. 


[50] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

I know not, for what is the girl to 
you?” 

“What did he say? What? 
What?” cried Dudleigh, shaking 
her, for she was dying fast before 
him and he must know the truth. 

“Our Lady asked St. John if 
all was well with the girl Joan,” 
said the hen-wife, with the snow 
drifting over her old shoulders, 
“and the blessed saint spoke as 
follows: 

“‘Madam, and Queen of 
Heaven,’ he said, ‘even now Joan 
is well married to the grandson of 
a wealthy noble, of whom all his 
kin died a week ago in a storm at 
sea, and his grandson will take 
his place in a few hours, and be 
lord of more land than his eye can 
see, and the father of a fine strong 
heir to be born tomorrow; but I 
am giving the old man twelve 


[51] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

hours’ grace to save his soul in, 
for he is a very hard and sinful 
man, and I know how tender is 
the Virgin’s heart!’ 

“And Our Lady thanked him 
and went to worshipping her son, 
being easy in her mind. And now 
I am dying, Hartover, and may 
God forgive you my cold death,” 
said the hen-wife, and the snow 
covered her mouth, and her soul 
went out. 

At that Dudleigh Hartover gave 
a great cry and ran out through 
the storm like a wild man, for he 
saw what a mean fool he had been 
to doubt Our Lady, and that his 
heart was rotted through with 
cruelty and wickedness, and his 
end near. And yet he could not 
repent of his blasphemies, but only 
of his sin against Joan, and as he 
ran through the drifts he called 


[52] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

aloud on her to forgive him, and 
to pray for him that he might 
believe to his salvation in the 
Power he had scorned. And as 
he stumbled through the biting 
snow, and knew how she must 
have suffered when he drove her 
into it, the tears froze on his face, 
and he staggered and fell, to die, 
as he thought. But his stiff hands 
touched a wooden door, and it 
pushed open before him and he 
saw a strange sight. 

Outside, as I tell you, was the 
dark and the storm, but inside 
that shepherd’s hut was all light, 
for just beyond the one pane shone 
a mighty silver Star that made the 
room a blaze. And there on the 
straw lay Joan with her new-born 
child beside her, but she was not 
alone; for all that mean hut was 
filled with angels, as Dudleigh Hart- 


[53] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

over plainly saw. And one washed 
the child in a silver bath and dried 
it with a towel so white that the 
eye ached at it, and the bath 
smelled of roses and lilies. And 
one wiped the mother’s brow of 
sweat, and one played upon a 
great harp with strings so that 
the heart ached and swelled to 
tears to hear it. And one in a 
blue robe like St. Anne and a glory 
at her head, wrapped the child in 
a fleecy band, and one that held 
a lamb, and meek of face like St. 
Agnes, prayed at the mother’s feet, 
she too with a glory. And in the 
far corner knelt the friendly shep- 
herd and his son, that knew Joan 
well, signing themselves and pray- 
ing. And a warm sweet air, all 
of roses and lilies, filled the place, 
and Young Dudleigh knelt between 
two cherubs who sang like birds 


[54] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

to the harp, making a lullaby for 
the new born, with tears upon his 
face, for he thought that they were 
all to die. 

Then Old Dudleigh Hartover fell 
on his face, for he knew his end 
was come. And by the single pane, 
lit by the great silver Star, he saw 
a shadow glide, and it was the 
hen-wife, but wonderful white now, 
and with wings, and by her side, 
St. Barnabas, come to bear her 
company to heaven. And Old 
Dudleigh heard him say, 

“ Look, hen-wife, Our Lady gives 
you this sight to pay for your cold 
death. Is it not a tender one? 
Blessed are they who are born and 
die tonight!” 

And at that Old Hartover’s cruel 
heart was all melted and he prayed 
for grace and that Joan and the 
Virgin would forgive him ere he 


[55] 


THE LUCK O* LADY JOAN 

died, and all the saints and angels 
in that room listened while Joan 
forgave him most sweetly and he 
confessed all his sins and died. 
And my grandmother held that 
her prayers and goodness saved 
him at the last, but I do not know 
as to that. 

Now it is only right to say that 
there were many who held that 
the silver star was but Young Hart- 
over’s lanthorn and that the saints 
were the shepherd’s wife and daugh- 
ters, the silver bath but their pewter 
bowls, and the roses and lilies the 
fragrance of the new hay that 
smelled strong in that great fire 
they had made to keep her warm. 
And they say that the harps and 
the singing were but the little 
choir-boys singing in the early dawn 
with Father Victor against the 
high service, later, and the glories 


[56] 




THE LUCK O’ 

LADY JOAN 


on the women’s heads were but 
the lanthorn’s winking rays. And 
once I thought with these, but now 
that I am near my grandmother’s 
age I say freely that I know naught 
of it, for sure, if the Blessed Ones 
are ever watching, ’twould be on 
Christmas Eve that they would 
be most like to honor Our Blessed 
Lord, and what could be more to 
His honor than what I have told 
you? 

At any rate the Lady Joan be- 
lieved it all and taught it to the 
young lord, her son, and put up 
a most beautiful chapel to the 
Virgin where that shepherd’s hut 
had stood, and had masses for the 
hen-wife so long as she lived, for 
’t was to her, do you see, that she 
owed (under heaven) her luck. 

But my grandmother would 
always say that Joan's luck, as 


[ 57 ] 


THE LUCK O’ LADY JOAN 

good fortune came to be called in 
that part of the countryside, was 
not what St. John got her (with 
Old Hartover’s help) at all, but 
what heaven put in her at her 
birthday — a heart to love and 
hands to be doing with for those 
she loved; and now that I am 
my grandmother’s age, and have 
seen much of women and the world 
God put ’em in, I think the old 
lady was right! 


[581 




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